


c o m i n g    d o w n

by dearg0d



Series: nine lives [2]
Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst, Drug Abuse, Fluff, M/M, The Losers Club, but happy ending ( kind of ? ) bc this is me and I am a softie, deal with your problems by projecting them onto fictional characters, intense shit ???, just angst rlly, sad shit, umm, very toxic relationship tho, way darker than I originally intended ???, who all definitely deserve BETTER
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-30
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2019-05-25 07:17:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14971913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dearg0d/pseuds/dearg0d
Summary: bill denbrough deals with childhood trauma traditionally - recreational drug use. and by fucking his childhood best friend.-(definitely not inspired by sweater weather)





	c o m i n g    d o w n

**Author's Note:**

> hellooo,  
> first off, this is kind of OOC ? not entirely, but like, drugs make people ooc so don't @ me, and this is definitely self indulgent projecting above anything else,  
> second, im british and the drug culture here is different to the US so like I may have used names n stuff unfamiliar idk ???  
> and finally, i hope u enjoy & if u do or do not let me know bc it helps A LOT

Bill Denbrough was the human embodiment of a train wreck. 

His entire life had been a series of tragedies and misfortunes, enough to drain anyone of hope and joy. Optimism was no longer Bill's strength, Bill didn't think he really had a strength anymore - unless his tolerance for ecstasy counted - which was a damn shame, because he was well aware that once upon a time, everyone had nothing but respect for his courage. 

Somewhere in the madness, Bill had lost all of that. He was no longer leader of the Losers Club, instead a fallen hero. A sad shell of the boy that used to be.

It broke his friends having to see him like that. The self-destruction of Bill Denbrough was probably the main reason the Losers fell apart. Bill was aware of that, and it just gave him another reason to continue on his downwards spiral, fuelling his undying self-hatred. 

All the Losers took it hard when they realised what a state Bill had become, unsure how he had gotten so out of control without them even noticing. Obviously, they had been aware he was 'experimenting', but none of them had known the extent, none of them had understood the things Bill was messing with. And then naturally, all blamed themselves for how he had become. 

Especially Stan. But he had more reason to.

It had started off innocent enough, the Losers experimenting with weed in their senior year. Bill had wanted to try it after hearing Beverly talk about her experiences on it in her letters to the Losers. Stanley, surprisingly enough, had been the one to get hold of some first. He heard that some girl who went to his place of worship was big on it, and quizzed her one day after a service. The girl gave Stanley a name, and the rest was history.

Minus Ben, all the losers enjoyed the feeling of being high. Eddie especially, which surprised them all due to how anxious he had been about the activity before he tried it. Stanley loved it too, maybe even more so than Eddie and Bill to begin with. It was always his idea when they snuck to the barrens for joints, and he was the first Loser to start smoking it alone. 

Bill began to join him, claiming he loved it just as much. Sneaking away to a secluded part of town and getting blazed beyond words was a weekly occurrence at one time, for Bill and Stan. It was a coping method, a therapeutic experience, and nobody was judging anyone for it - not at first. 

It sparked an interest in two things for Bill: drugs, and Stanley. He fell in love with both at the same time. Neither intentionally, but one was much more deadly than the other. Whilst one gave him life and purpose, the other simultaneously took both of those things away. 

"What should we try next?" Bill asked Stanley one rainy evening in Derry. Stanley had never had an interest in further experimentation. He didn't feel the need, never had. Bill was the opposite - his curiosity and fearlessness getting the better of him again. None of the other losers were willing to try anything else either, and he was too afraid to try it alone. He didn't exactly have any other options. 

Not until college, at least. By then, it was safe to say that Bill was addicted to weed, or close enough. The losers were vaguely aware, but not worried. At that point, Bill was still good old Big Bill - their hero, their leader, their love.

Stanley remembered the first time Bill did something different as if it had been only a day ago. It had been two years, in reality, but the memory was fresh and raw. The sound of Bill's voice on the phone, one of his weird new friends screeching in the background. Stanley had practically sprinted over to Bill's dorm, shocked and concerned to find Bill and his room-mate, Frankie, spinning in circles in the centre of their dorm, humming to loud disco music that Bill usually turned his nose up at.

"Ecstasy." Stan had resisted the urge to punch him on the spot. Instead, Frankie coaxed him into trying some himself. Stanley didn't particularly regret doing it, but he regretted allowing Bill to do it so often. The night had been wonderful, maybe one of the best ever.

As soon as it kicked in, Stanley had been on Bill. He had never felt love so intensely, never had such an overpowering urge to express it all before. Frankie left, and he and Bill had spent the entire night attempting to fuck and finding two million different ways to say "I love you". Heaven, Bill had called the night, but the day after had been hell. If Stan ever thought about it too hard, he could still feel the dull throb in his jaw, and how empty his stomach had felt. 

To him, it was never worth it. Bill saw it differently. 

He never really stopped with the ecstasy, and it only ever got more and more intense. The drugs got worse and the side effects did too. But somehow, Bill had remained Bill. 

Until acid. Bill dropped a tab for the very first time with all of the Losers present. It was his twentieth birthday, and he said it was his 'birthday treat', a piss-poor excuse to deter his friends from trying to stop him. None of them bothered anyway, they knew Bill well enough to know that he couldn't be stopped. But he had never regretted his own stubborn-ness so much in his entire, tragic life. 

It was a bad trip beyond bad trips, scarring not just for Bill, but for everyone else that witnessed him. Bill was hallucinating for six hours straight. In reality, he was tucked up safe in Stan's dorm with his friends surrounding him, but Bill's brain was imagining the sewer. Georgie was there. His parents. The Rabbi. Henry Bowers. And of course, the clown. He was screaming, but none of the Losers could get through to him. The shouting barely ceased his entire trip. 

Stanley had to leave on four separate occasions, sobbing uncontrollably at the sight of someone he adored so much kicking and punching at air. The worst part? Bill went and did it again. Only, his second trip was somehow worse. Bill didn't talk about what he had seen or heard, all any of the losers knew was that Frankie found him at two in the morning, curled up naked on the shared bathroom floor, screaming into the drain. The most disturbing part? He had covered himself in face paint, body white from head to toe, two orange lines going through the centre of each eye, a red nose. 

"Like, kind of clown vibes," Frankie had described. Stanley could have _fainted._

Bill wasn't the same after that. Everyone could see it, and it was devastating, but they were slowly drained of pity. He had done it to himself, a pathetic excuse for a coping mechanism. To deal with whatever horror's he had seen, Bill's habits only got worse. And nobody wanted to sit around and watch him scream about clowns or Henry Bowers or "twenty two years from now", it was too hard for them. 

Bill left acid alone after that. But he didn't stop experimenting. Xanax, Coke, Ketamine, and forever returning to Ecstasy. It only ever fucked him up more, to the point where he would get angry if Stan tried to deter him from doing something. To the extreme of him locking Stanley out of his own dorm for an entire night because he had refused to let Bill rack up some lines. It was winter at the time, and Stan had been in his pyjamas when Bill had turned up, most likely only wanting some physical affection. 

That was the turning point, the day the Losers drew a line that separated themselves from the intolerable state that was Bill Denbrough. Stanley wanted to go with them, but he couldn't, it was harder than he ever imagined it would be. He didn't speak to Bill for a week after that, unable to bare it, but then cracked because he was stupid and in love. 

The rest of the Losers were all crippled with guilt, knowing they had abandoned their friend, but Bill was beyond saving in their eyes, and he did not want to be saved to begin with. Stanley was learning that the hard way, not that any of the other losers knew that. Stanley told them he was done with Bill too, ashamed of his weakness. 

He was not done with Bill. He did not know how to be. And he didn't want to be.

_Hope._ Stanley Uris still had it, a fucking lot of it. And maybe that was why he was walking over to Bill's dorm at one am on a Tuesday morning.

He knew what to expect. Bill would be high, on some substance, or maybe coming down. They'd fuck - quick and rough as they always did. Bill was passionate, fucked with purpose and with the sole aim of pleasing Stan. They'd adjusted to each other, knew where and how to touch to make it good. Bill always made it good, even more so when he fucked up on something. Stan hated that he loved that. After the sex, Stan figured they'd lazily make out, then sleep. He'd leave in the morning like nothing had ever happened. 

That was the usual set up, and Stanley had adjust to the usual set up. 

Nothing seemed out of the ordinary when Stan entered the dorm with the key Bill had secretly had him cut. He switched on the light and gave the room a quick once over. 

"Where's Frankie?" Stanley asked. It was no surprise to see him gone, Frankie was always out. Stan didn't care to know what he was doing, nor did he genuinely want to know where he was going, but he needed to know how long they had alone together. He didn't like it when Frankie was around, his presence had the potential to be incredibly unnerving. It wasn't that Stan was intimidated by him, it was just that he didn't enjoy his company, or his lifestyle, or anything about him. 

"Concert," Bill said, "One of his weird indie bands, probably not coming home." Stan hoped that was true, but Frankie was rather unpredictable. Chaotically unpredictable. That was another thing Stanley hated about him, maybe more so than his drug habit, which was much more intense than Bill's. Stanley had only met the guy sober a handful of times, but he had disliked him equally as much. 

"Cool," Stanley stood in the doorway, sliding out of his shoes as he observed the room. It was messy, always so messy. Bill sometimes made the effort to tidy it if he knew Stan was coming round, but he was getting sloppier and sloppier, and Frankie couldn't have given fewer fucks about his OCD. Stan fought every urge in his body to start lining up the empty bottles and picking up the dirty clothes littered across the floor. Bill saw him anxiously glancing around and gulped. 

"I'm sorry about th-the mess," He said, quietly, as if ashamed, "I meant to clean up earlier, but I-I-I-I kept f-falling to sleep and I didn't have t-time, with th-the term paper and everything." It was mostly truth, and it was a genuine apology. Bill hated letting Stanley down, hated seeing the look of disgust he was trying to hold back. 

"It's fine," Stanley lied, he despised it, and was growing more uncomfortable with his surroundings by the second. "Did you finish the paper?" 

"Not quite," Bill mumbled, averting eye contact. Stanley sighed, but he was hardly surprised. 

"Were you too stoned?" Stanley asked him, sitting down next to Bill on his bed. He left a considerable amount of space between them, something that made Bill's heart tug the wrong way. A lump rose in his throat as he nodded in response, averting eye contact with Stanley so that he didn't have to watch the pained expression form on his face. "You're still stoned, aren't you?" 

"A l-li-little," Bill confessed. Stanley wanted to get angry, wanted to yell at him and give him yet another lecture on his irresponsibility and stupidity. He wanted to cry and tell him how disappointed he was once again. Stanley did neither, wanting more than either of those things for him and Bill to be okay. Another argument meant they were one step closer to ending for good, and Stan wasn't ready for that. "But I had to be. I uh, I-I d-did Coke last night, Stan. The c-comedown...I-I-I f-forgot how bad it gets." 

"Oh," Stanley said, trying to pry all judgement out of his tone. Bill had expected the rant, he was always waiting for Stanley to just explode at him, but that wasn't really enough to stop him from continuing with his destructive antics. Bill didn't know if anything would be enough to stop that, and it terrified him. 

"I'm sorry-" 

"Don't." Stan's voice was firm yet fair. Bill shut up, sighing into Stan's neck. He knew Stan had gotten bored of his apologies, they were becoming so frequent that the meaning was no longer really there. 

"I was g-gonna go to the g-gig," Bill said, steering the conversation elsewhere, "But I couldn't hah-handle it. I needed to be with y-you tonight." His voice cracked as he spoke. Stan knew he meant what he was saying, but that didn't comfort him at all. Bill shuffled over to Stanley and threw his arms around his waist, resting his head on his shoulder. Stanley tried not to freeze up, wanting more than anything to just melt into it like he did when they had first started seeing each other. It hurt his heart to think about the difference. He still loved Bill just as much, probably even more, but Bill made it so much harder, so much more draining and painful. 

It had never been easy for them, mostly because they both agreed to never tell anyone. That was still the agreement, for some reason. There was nobody that knew enough to call them out, to state the obvious or quiz them on the nature of their friendship. They had never even told the other losers, although Stanley knew there was some suspicion, and Frankie forever made jokes about it. 

"Do you miss the others?" Stan asked him, adjusting in his arms. Bill nodded. He truly did, but he didn't blame them for cutting him off, he supposed they were trying to motivate him to sort his life out, and he despised that losing them wasn't enough. If anything, it was making everything worse. Bill didn't want Stanley to know that though, he didn't want to make him feel bad, or try to fix it. Stan was always trying to fix it. 

"Do they even care?" Bill knew they did. They cared too much, they cared to a dangerous extent. Leaving Bill was the first selfish thing they had ever done, and it was partially in his best interest. Bill was only going to do damage to the group if he stayed in it. When he was ready, the losers would be beyond happy to start seeing him again. Bill was well aware of all of this, but he still found himself asking, maybe to trigger a reaction from Stanley above anything. 

"Of course they fucking care," Stanley said, "They're worried sick." 

"Do they know you're here?" 

"No, Bill," Stanley mumbled, ashamed. Throughout their 'thing' Bill had always resisted the urge to tell the losers. He wanted them to know more than anything, but Stanley always insisted it was a bad idea, and told Bill he wasn't ready for anyone to know about his sexuality yet. Bill, naturally, complied. He knew that Stan would continue lying to the losers, but it still bothered him. "They'd be upset with me." 

"Why?" Bill scoffed, almost angered by that idea. "Because you're not following the pack? Because you have a mind of your own?" 

"Because I promised them I wouldn't come see you," Stan confessed. "I promised myself the same, but here I am." He felt weak, truly and completely weak. He didn't know how he was so easily swayed by the sound of Bill's voice, by his soft begs and pleas. Anyone else would never have answered his call in the first place, but Stanley was too curious, was too concerned. His worry was his weakness. 

"Why?" Bill asked, smaller that time. He was asking as if he didn't know the answer, but they both knew it wasn't true. He knew - didn't he? Stanley said it enough, not always with words. But Stanley didn't need to use words to tell Bill that he was his one love. 

"Why do you think, Bill?" He spat back, shaking out of Bill's grasp. It was easy to do physically, Bill was weak and tired. Emotionally, shaking Bill off was going to be the hardest thing in the world. Stanley was postponing it, hoping that it wasn't as inevitable as everyone else believed it to be. Stanley crawled to the other end of the bed, curling up in the corner against the wall. Bill followed him. 

"I don't know," Bill sighed, and to be fair, he didn't. The optimistic part of Bill's mind told him that it was because he loved him, that it was because he cared and wanted to make it better, but Bill's brain was too dark to give that train of thought dominance. Louder voices in his head said that Stanley had only come because Bill was a warm body and Stan was cold and alone. The same voices told him that Stanley had only come round to avoid a guilty conscience. It wasn't a completely irrational train of thought, but Bill had a lot of those, too many to know the difference. 

"I don't either," Stanley said, rolling his eyes. He wished he understood why he was so submissive, why Bill had so much indestructible power over him. There was the obvious answer, the one that suggested Stanley's love for Bill clouded his judgement and controlled him almost completely. Stan didn't like that answer so much - mostly because he still thought it positioned him as weak. Lots of people fell in love, those people didn't necessarily betray all of their friends, get out of bed in the middle of the night, walk across an entire college campus in the midst of winter wearing sweatpants and Bill's oversized sweater, just to sit and cuddle because their lover wasn't enjoying the aftermath of a cocaine bender. 

Stanley wondered what a normal, functional relationship would be like - _impossible,_ he told himself. 

"Thanks f-for coming," Bill said, "I-I-I-I hate having comedowns. I hate b-being alone." His voice cracked again and Stanley thought for sure that Bill was going to cry, but he didn't, instead burying his head in Stanley's shoulder and pressing a soft kiss there. Stanley wondered if he was going to be the one crying - it wouldn't the first time. 

"I'm here," Stan whispered, giving in and sliding his arm around Bill's waist. "I'm always here." 

And he was. Every time Bill worked himself into a state, whether through drugs, lack of, or just because of poor mental health, Stan was there for him. The other losers were aware of that arrangement, as was Frankie, who always went to Stan as soon as Bill was out of his control (which was always pretty quickly considering Frankie couldn't even take care of himself), but it wasn't something that was ever questioned. They all just figured Stanley understood Bill better, knew how to cheer him up better, and he did. But there was so much more to it than that. The complexity of their friendship ran beyond a simple understanding of one another. Their love was deeper than that of two normal best friends, deeper than that of two people in love, somehow stronger, somehow more raw. Stanley wrote it down to the trauma. 

"I know." And with that, Bill did cry. 

"Don't," Stanley whispered, his own voice wavering. He shut his eyes, willing the tears away. Stan had spent far too many nights crying over Bill's mess. "Don't cry, Bill." 

"I m-m-miss them," Bill said, throwing his leg over Stanley's. They sunk down into the bed, laying for the sake of comfort. "I miss them so much, it physically huh-hurts-" 

"They'll come round." Stanley wasn't entirely sure how true that was. The losers got angry at Bill a lot for the things he was doing to himself, but more so because of what he was doing to the losers in general. Bill lied to them a lot, mostly about being sober, mostly about his whereabouts. He did it out of shame, more so than intentionally disrespecting them, but it was painful to find out someone they held so dear could spin them so many tales. He was never at home studying, as he said. He wasn't 'only stoned', as he insisted. He wasn't 'trying to get better'. And it hurt every single time they discovered they'd fallen for the same lines. 

Bill didn't just lie. It didn't end there, no, Bill started taking advantage of their kindness, their patience, their absolute adoration and respect for him. He asked to loan money that he had no intention of paying back, he ditched them at parties and social events to go and fucked up with strangers. Bill would call them up at ungodly hours begging and pleading for rides or help of some sort. Their patience wore very, very thin after three years of that. And Bill didn't take kindly, refused to understand why they were 'never there' for him when he needed them. Too many nasty arguments erupted, too many foul words exchanged. 

But they still stuck around, still cleaned up his vomit, still slid him ten bucks when he told them he was starving and broke. You see, the losers cared too much about Bill to cut him out for what he was doing to them alone. Beverly didn't care about her money enough to cut Bill off for that. Eddie didn't mind having to bleach and clean out his room if Bill couldn't keep his vomit in. Mike could tolerate having to drive to strange, niche locations every now and then to get Bill out of a sticky situation. That was friendship, to them, it was what they had to do because they loved him so much. It was when they realised how awful Bill was being to Stanley they drew the line. 

Because it was much, much worse for him, they all realised. None of them were exactly sure about the nature of the relationship, but Beverly had speculated for a long time that something more was going on, even if it was more of a one-sided affection. All of the losers knew that Stanley took care of Bill much more often than they all did, but they simply wrote it down to how much closer they were, and how it was just easier for Stan because they lived on the same campus. And because Frankie always called Stan first. 

Nobody knew that it was becoming an almost daily occurrence. Not until Stanley broke down - turning up to Richie's dorm at four am, soaked, shivering and sobbing because Bill had flipped his shit and locked him out of his own dorm. Richie had gone ape-shit, not even Eddie was capable of calming him down that night. They tried to host an intervention, tried to get Bill the help he needed, but he was too stubborn, insisting that he was fine and he didn't want or need their help. It was a bad call, Bill knew that now because his heart _ached_ for them. 

His comedown had forced him to think, and he had spent half the day evaluating how much he had taken them all for granted. The other half was spent wallowing in self pity because he really, really believed that it was too late, that they would never want him back. Not even when IT came back, because he assumed they were doing fine without him. He had become a burden, and they didn't need any more burdens. 

So no, maybe they wouldn't come round. Bill wouldn't blame them. Stanley wouldn't, either, knowing deep down that they had all cut ties with him for his sake. That only made the gnawing guilt for going to see Bill worsen. Because he was a burden to Stanley too. And that simply wasn't fair, was it? 

"They'll come round," Stanley repeated, as if trying to convince himself. "They love you. They love you so much, Bill. But it's hard, seeing you like this." He didn't want to go into exactly how hard it was, didn't want to tell Bill of the nights he had spent sobbing in bed because he was so, so afraid Bill was going to take it too far. He didn't want to tell Bill how he had thrown up after cleaning all the clown makeup off of him, or how he had fucked up so many potential relationships and friendships because Bill was always his priority, always the centre of his mind, always the biggest concern. Bill wouldn't deal with that very well, he never did. Bill Denbrough could not handle guilt. 

Bill Denbrough couldn't handle anything. But maybe that was because he had spent so long trying to handle everything. 

"I'm so broken," Bill sobbed. He lifted his head from Stanley's necked and forced a laugh. "Fucking look at me, spitting th-this w-woe is me b-bullshit." 

"You're allowed," Stanley mumbled, wondering if the self-awareness would be helpful. He wanted nothing more than for Bill to come to his senses, see the damage he had done - fix it all. Fix himself. Sometimes, Stanley really believed he was getting there. Other times he thought it was never going to happen. 

"Nah," Bill said, "I can't k-k-keep f-feeling sorry for mys-self. What about everyone else? I'm so fuh-fucking selfish." Stanley wanted to argue back, entirely because he wanted to make Bill feel better, but everything Bill said was true. There was no counter argument, no valid one at least. 

"I'm selfish too," Stanley confessed, turning closer into Bill, who pressed another kiss against his neck. "We all are. Human nature, Bill." 

"I'm worse," Bill whispered, "I-I-I-I...Stan, there's s-so much I need to say." That didn't sit well for some reason. Stan had a bad feeling, a chill ran up his spine. 

"Later," Stan said, "We'll talk about it all, baby." Stanley kissed him, doing everything in his power to make Bill forget whatever it was he wanted to say. Stanley knew it couldn't be good, he could feel it in his gut. 

"L-Later," Bill agreed, pulling Stanley on top of him. They kissed like they always kissed, with everything they had. It was all open mouthed and messy, tongues and hands eliciting soft moans and pants. Mostly from Stan, but it drove Bill insane. 

"No shirt," Stan hummed into Bill's mouth, sliding his hands up it. Bill sat up, threw it off, then went back to kissing him. 

They kissed like their lives depended on it, and fucked like it was going to be the last time. Bill was exceptionally good, always had been, even since their awkward first time he had known just how to make Stanley fucking melt, as if he was born with the sole purpose of pleasuring him. Stanley didn't think he would ever get over how good their bodies were together, how well Bill fit in him, how perfect it felt when their hips joined. The smallest touches gave Stan goosebumps, everything feeling so intense and intimate. 

_He was made for me_ , Stanley thought, _we were made for this._

It never took much to make him come all over, always before Bill, always whispering his name. Bill was never far behind though, like he was always just holding out, waiting for his lover to go first. Courteous. That night, all it took was Bill humming expletives into his ear, softly kissing down his marked up neck. By the time they were both done, Bill's back was scratched raw and Stan was half-asleep, fucked out. 

It was almost exactly how Stanley had expected the night to go. He had no idea that was all about to change. 

"I-I-I need to t-talk to you, baby," Bill mumbled. He didn't want to ruin the moment, didn't want to shake Stan out of his half-head state. But it was too important not to. Bill knew, if he didn't say it then, he never would. And he had to, absolutely had to. 

"Hm?" Stanley replied. 

"I l-l-l-love y-you Stanley," Bill said. But that was only the beginning, and Stanley was always a 'good news first' kind of guy. "I love you so much." 

"I love you too." 

"Being in l-love m-makes you d-do stupid sh-shit, Stanley Uris," Bill sighed. Stan nodded, unable to dispute. He didn't consider the lengths he had gone to for Bill rational or wise choices, but he didn't regret them either - but that was love. Love makes the hard things worth it. 

"I know that," Stanley whispered. He did know that, all too fucking well. He supposed tonight counted as stupid - falling back into Bill's bed because of one phone call, getting fucked, all while knowing that he was going to go back home, silently sob and then tell all the losers that hadn't seen Bill in weeks.

"I hate that," Bill said. "I hate that you're doing all of this for me. I hate that the only thing you get out of this is a quick fuck-" 

"That's not the case at all," Stanley snapped, sitting up. He felt his gut twisting. Is that how Bill really saw it? Did he not see how much good he brought into Stan's live? "I don't do this to get anything back, Bill. I do this because I adore you. I do this because you're one of the only good things in my life. I do this because I want to spend time with you. Even if you are shit-faced or fucked. Even if I can't tell my friends. Even if it does make me stupid." 

Contrary to popular opinion, it wasn't all doom and gloom. Their relationship didn't start and end with drugs and sex. They were more than that, more complex, more meaningful. Sex was only a part of it. There were other beautiful things in their relationship, things that were becoming less frequent, but things that mattered all the same. They were in love, for a start. And there was so much joy that came with that, even in the hard times. And the drugs didn't ruin other things Stanley loved about Bill - they didn't ruin the way he smiled (the infectious kind, the kind that could light up a fucking funeral), or the way his eyes would shine (like the fucking sun) when he was talking about something he really cared about, or how he moved graceful yet fast, walking with a bounce (like he was careless, like he had a literal spring in his step), always on a mission to do something fucking wonderful. 

And Bill was so talented, to a jaw-dropping degree. Stan was forever on the receiving end of his poems or his drawings, which Bill forever gifted him with (because he was so amazingly thoughtful), each time in awe and shock from his love's production. Bill Denbrough wrote with the hand of someone capable of changing the fucking world. His way with words was impossible to overlook, stutter or no, somehow effortlessly putting together the most artful and creative sentences, ones that made Stan's skin crawl, his heart drop, his stomach ache. His drawings were equally as beautiful, but incredibly different. Where Bill's writing was borderline flawless, perfection on a page, his art was perfectly imperfect, messy and rough, yet still capable of conveying emotion with raw power and dignity. Edgy and empowering. Stan loved it just as much. 

More than that, Bill was smart. And he was funny, and kind, and interesting - more so than any other human Stanley had bothered getting to know. Bill had a story more complex than any other, he had a sense of humour that aligned with Stan's on a level that always meant they were doubled over, dying with laughter. And charm that even after so long, made Stan's knees bow with weakness. His kindness always made Stan's heart melt, and his intellect never failed to impress him. 

There was nobody on the earth that Stanley Uris loved more. And he couldn't have given fewer fucks if that made him stupid. And he was hurt that Bill would ever think all that he was good for was sex. He was more, so much more. Bill Denbrough was his _everything._

"You d-d-d-deserve more." Bill was going to cry again. Stan could tell. He sat up, pulling both of Stanley's hands into his own. "I'm s-so b-bad for you, Stan." 

Stanley knew that was true. If it hadn't been for Bill, more so how he felt about Bill, he would never have dabbled with Ecstasy, or Xans, or the Speed. It had been a mixed adventure, some of the most intense feelings of euphoria, but also the most disgusting feelings of panic and discomfort. Stanley could barely remember his experience with Xanax, it just knocked him out and left him confused. The speed made him run around like a headless chicken, took away his sense of control and gave him a comedown straight from hell. The Ecstasy had given him a whole mood board of emotions, from suicidal on a drop to feeling fucking superhuman on a peak. And then the rollercoasters in between - the panic when he would question how hard he'd come down, the overwhelming amount of love he'd feel for everyone around him. The vomit. The lack of sleep. The sweating. It was all what Bill had begged and pleaded he do with him. Because he didn't want to do it alone, because he wanted Stan to understand, because he didn't want to be the only loser self-destructing. 

"But I'm good for you," Stanley protested. It came out small, like he was pleading. He supposed he was, but for what? Was Bill going to leave him? Was this his pitch to stick around? Was Bill trying to convince him to fuck off and let him ruin himself in peace? Stanley hoped he was wrong, but the feeling in his gut told him otherwise. Stanley Uris had a good gut. 

"But you're not," Bill said, and it stung like a bitch. Stanley had always done his best to keep Bill's head above water, to keep him out of trouble and to keep him somewhat safe. He thought he had been relatively successful, considering Bill was still alive and criminal record free. If he had been left to his own devices, there was telling how he would've ended up. "You don't stop me." 

"You don't let me," Stanley countered, "You never let me! That's not fucking fair!" Bill knew it wasn't. Bill knew that Stanley was probably half the reason he was alive, but he supposed he owed that to a lot of people. 

"Nobody could be g-g-good for me, Stan." In other words, nothing personal. Bill thought he was past saving, didn't want Stanley to fight anymore. 

"Try a fucking therapist," Stan scoffed, "A doctor, a psych-" 

"I-I-I-I'm n-not going those places," Bill cut in. He wouldn't even consider it. Adults had never done their job right in his life, he didn't think they would ever start. Neglected by his parents. Teachers that allowed him to be bullied. Cops that ignored the abduction of his little brother. 

Plus, Bill had written himself off. He was convinced that he was a lost cause, thinking for some fucking reason that there was something artful about that. His mind romanticised it, like being hopeless was poetic and fitting. Like it wasn't absolutely destroying everyone he cared about. And maybe that was why he was so convinced this was the right thing to do. He didn't want Stanley to keep watching as he took himself apart for the sake of doing so. 

Bad coping mechanisms, to understate it simply.

"Why not, Bill?" Stanley asked, but it was a conversation they'd had before. Stanley knew, and to an extent he did understand. Bill struggled with trust, especially people that were older, especially people in positions of power. That didn't mean it was okay to just write the option off though, and there was no shame in it. A few were seeking professional help for what they'd been through. Ben saw a psychiatrist, as did Beverly and Mike, and Richie had tried before deciding it wasn't for him. Eddie decided he'd had too many bad experiences with medical professionals, and he was coping alright without. Stan didn't want to because he was trying to avoid thinking about their traumatic past, not bring it back into light. Dealing with Bill, his present was traumatic enough. 

"You know why," Bill said, and began to cry again. "You fuh-fucking know. And I can't s-stop with the d-d-d- with the st-stuff because it's the only th-thing that makes it all okay again, Stan! I only forget when I'm h-high." It was a lie. He also forgot when he was with Stan, when they were wrapped up in their own bubble together. He had confessed this in the past, but he wasn't going to again, for Stan's sake. He needed Stan to leave, needed to push him away. 

"I don't believe that," Stan sobbed. Unbeknownst to him, Stanley was making it harder for Bill. He always knew exactly what to say, and knew Bill too well for him to get away with his usual antics and sayings. And Bill hadn't thought it through enough, hadn't constructed his argument, or any reasons at all really. He just knew, in his drug-addled mind, that he couldn't keep Stanley around, that he didn't deserve him and he needed to let go for Stan's sake. He truly believed it was the right thing. "And I don't know what you want from me right now, Billy. You don't want me to go. You didn't invite me over here to kick me back out." 

Only, he did. "I j-juh-just wanted your body." 

"Liar," Stan yelled it. Stanley never yelled, but it jumped from his throat like fucking venom. Because he knew it was a lie. A disgusting, heart wrenching lie. He didn't understand it, didn't understand why Bill would do that, why he was trying so hard to push him away when he needed him so bad - when not half an hour ago Bill had told him he loved him. Bill didn't invite him over for a fuck, he had wanted more than that. "You're a fucking liar, Bill Denbrough! Why are you doing this?" 

"I-I-I'm going to break you," Bill whispered, his voice thick due to the tears, "It's going to b-be my fault when you f-fall apart. And it's inevitable, Stan." 

"No it's fucking not," Stan spat, hoping with every spark he had left that he was right. "It's not. We're meant to be Bill! We're fucking soulmates." He was almost hyperventilating. Stanley had postponed this conversation so many times, avoided a countless amount of arguments just to prevent a breakup. A break up that he wanted to be in control of. A break up that he deserved to be in control of. 

"I-I-I w-want you to b-be with someone better," Bill said, squeezing his hands tighter. Stan would have snatched them away, but he was too desperate for the contact, clinging like it would be the last time he ever got to. He wondered if that was the case, but it hurt too much to think so he pushed past it, instead focusing on how he could convince Bill that his thought train was fucked. "You'll n-never be happy with me." 

"I am happy," Stan protested, but he didn't even believe himself. He wasn't happy, hadn't been for a long time, but he wanted to fight through it. Stan believed they were capable of making things good again. Because it wasn't all bad. Bill made him happy, Bill's habits were the problem. "I'll be worse off without you." 

"At first, maybe," Bill agreed. Stanley stared at him in disbelief. He had never expected the night to go like this, and maybe it was the shock making it worse. Stan regretted coming round at all, because he realised now, that he was going to have to stay the night. There was no way he was walking back across campus in such an emotional state so early in the morning. But the idea of waking up in Bill's bed when Bill was no longer his... 

And then the risk of Frankie finding them. 

"Always," Stan said, "Always." There was a pause as he thought for a moment. He didn't want to think, because it was making his heart hurt like it had never hurt before. But Stanley realised he had two options. He could stay, beg Bill to re-evaluate. Cry and plead and recite every reason he loved him to the bone. It would make him look weak, no doubt, but Stan knew Bill well enough to know it would probably work. 

Plan B was much harder. Plan B was leaving. And there was no certainty with that. Leaving meant that Bill held all the cards, that their entire future was in his hands. 

But it always fucking had been. 

"Do you really want me to go?" Stan asked, "Do you really want me to leave you?" He didn't. It was the comedown talking, and they both knew that. It was a whole mass of reasons, the entire world pushing them both to leave each other, and Bill trying to make it easier so that Stan didn't have to deal with his shit anymore. It was the guilt. It was the overwhelming fear. It was so many fucking things. 

But it wasn't what he really wanted. Bill loved him too much for that, loved him more than anything. But Bill nodded anyway, contradicting his truth. 

"I'll go," Stanley continued, "I'll get up and I'll leave. But if I do, you'll never hear from me again. I can't keep coming and going whenever you think it's what you want. I can't keep cleaning you up and then getting kicked out once we're fucked-out and sober. I can't keep taking care of you only to get it thrown back in my face. So I'll leave, but it will be the last time I ever do. Frankie will be the only person left that gives a toss, you'll have nobody to come clean you up, cuddle you out of a state. You'll be alone, again. Forever. If I go, I'm fucking gone." 

"And if I want y-you to s-s-st-stay?" Bill inquired, interlocking their fingers. Stan closed his eyes, willing away any more tears. He didn't know how they weren't both cried dry yet. 

"We pretend this conversation never happened," Stan said, "And you come home with me tomorrow. You stay with me, instead. And we tell the other losers, we tell them everything. And then get better. Both of us." 

Bill was crying. Harder, if that was possible. But he was nodding. "I l-l-like th-the sound of that." 

They were back on each other in seconds. Somewhere in his mind, Stanley acknowledged that this was another stupid, in love choice. He didn't mind all that much. 

Loss was inevitable. Everyone knew that. But Stanley decided in that moment he didn't care. Bill never had to begin with, but it was getting scarier and scarier. The wakeup call had been needed, even if it wasn't the start of something new. Bill couldn't promise that he was going to ever get better, he didn't know if he was ever going to want to heal or forget. He wasn't sure if Stanley could save him. But he loved him enough to try and try and try. If it all fell apart, then they'd be no worse off. At least they'd always been expecting it. Some bombs can't be diffused. 

\- 

The next morning, Stanley didn't leave. At least, he didn't leave alone. Bill packed his things, leaving behind his bongs and stash box. He left a note for Frankie, hoping to God he would understand. He wasn't a huge fan of the guy anyway. 

It only took him an hour to unpack, and Stan didn't have a roommate to consult. The spare bed was pushed up to the side of Stanley's, and Bill organised his things the way he knew Stan would organise his own. "Did y-you mean it about t-t-t-telling the losers?" 

"Of course." Stanley had always been the one opposing the idea, mostly out of shame. But he had grown out of it, and the only thing that had prevented him from telling everyone as things changed was the fact it had been so long, and the fact Bill was such a mess. Though neither of those things had changed, Stan had figured maybe they needed a change, maybe it was well overdue. He had told his parents at nineteen, and they had taken it relatively well. The losers kind of knew that Stan wasn't straight too, given away by his complete lack of interest in girls. He knew there was nothing to fear, nothing scarier than what he'd already conquered. 

They invited each loser over, one by one, day by day. 

Bev first. Beverly cried, she cried when the dorm door swung open and she saw Bill sat there. She cried when she was apologising to him, and cried harder when he apologised more. Bev laughed when they came out, and held them both harder than ever before. It didn't need to be said that she had long since figured it out, Stan knew as much, which was why she was the first. 

Ben second. They knew he'd be the most forgiving of Bill. He was more relieved, not an angry word leaving his mouth. He was all love, as always. 

Next, Mike. Mike was shocked, but forgiving and soft. He told Bill he was happy to support and help him, for Stanley's sake if nothing else. And then reminded them both how much he cared for them. 

Eddie and Richie came together. They laughed when Bill and Stanley told them they were together. They clasped hands too, silently confirming the same. Richie was still hurt, still angry at Bill, but a little bit less so. Eddie was all love, all hugs. He kissed them both on the cheek and reminded Bill that if he could beat a fucking demonic clown, he could beat anything. Bill believed him. 

Things were still as fucked up as before. Bill needed a joint every night, he was still absolutely gagging for something harder. Stan was still hurting, still furious and frustrated. It was harder having no alone time at all, on top of that. Bill was a full time responsibility now, but it was Bill, so he was worth it. 

"It's g-going to get w-worse," Bill kept reminding him, "It g-gets worse b-before it gets better." But they were ready, Stan hoped, as ready as they could be. 

"But you're getting better," Stan would reply, because he truly believed it. 

And maybe that was just another delusion, another stupid thought stemming from excessive amounts of adoration. Stanley didn't care anymore. 

Things were far from perfect, but they never had been. Stanley didn't know if they ever would be. He didn't know what it was like being in a normal relationship, they didn't know how to function like that. There were going to be hurdles, and both boys knew that. They were trying to prepare, trying to deal with things properly, but coping mechanisms had never been their strong point. Stanley dealt with everything by ignoring it, by putting every last thought into his sickening adoration for his best friend. Bill dealt with everything by consuming recreational drugs and fucking his best friend. He was going to give up the former, not that it left him with a perfectly healthy alternative. 

There were worse things to rely on than love, Bill knew from experience. And Stanley Uris was much more addictive than anything else he had fallen for. 


End file.
